were great days, the days of Henry of Navarre and his naughty
wife! But, after all, there wasn't as much chivalry and real romance in
Picardy then, or in the time of St. Quentin himself, as war has brought
back to it now. No deeds we can find in history equal the deeds of
to-day!

* * * * *

We got lost going home, somehow taking the wrong road, straying into a
wood, plunging and bumping down and down over fearful roads, and
landing--by what might have been a bad accident--in a deep ravine almost
too strange to be true.

Even our French officer couldn't make out what had happened to us, or
whither we'd wandered, until we'd stopped, and our blaze of acetylene
had lighted up a series of fantastic caverns in the rock (caverns
improved up to date by German cement) and in front of that honeycombed
gray wall a flat, grassy lawn that was a graveyard.

"_Mon Dieu, c'est le Ravin de Bitry!_" he cried. "Let us get out of it!
I would never have brought you here of my own free will."

"But why--why?" I insisted. "It isn't the only graveyard we have seen,
alas! and there are only French names on the little crosses."

"I know," he said. "After we chased the Germans out of this hole, we
lived here ourselves, in their caves--and died here, as you see,
Mademoiselle. But the place is haunted, and not by spirits of the
dead--worse! Put on your hats again, Messieurs! The dead will forgive
you. And, ladies, wrap veils over your faces. If it were not so late,
you would already know why. But the noise of our autos, and the lights
may stir up those ghosts!"

Then, in an instant, before the cars could turn, we _did_ know why.
Flies!... such flies as I had never seen ...nightmare flies. They rose
from everywhere, in a thick black cloud, like the plague of Egypt. They
were in thousands. They were big as bees. They dropped on us like a
black jelly falling out of a mould. They sat all over us. It was only
when our cars had swayed and stumbled up again, over that awful road,
out of the haunted hole in the deep woods, and risen into fresh, moving
air, that the horde deserted us. Julian O'Farrell had his hands bitten,
and dear Mother Beckett was badly stung on the throat. Horrible!... I
don't think I could have slept at night for thinking of the Ravin de
Bitry, if we hadn't had such a refreshing run home that the impression
of the lost, dark place was purified away.

Forest fragrance sprayed into our faces like